


Whatever you say, Gobbo

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorable drabble but no real smut, And I will never apologise for bad jokes... I'm sorry that's just who I am, Coffee Shops, Daily AU prompt, F/F, I blame Fleur, I'm not going to go into details here... it's just cute, John Watson Plays Rugby, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Use your imaginations people!, ballet!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 13:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: “I purposely get your coffee order wrong just so you’ll talk to me again” AU“I’ve a macchiato for Shylock!”“Sherlock.” He took the cup and glared at the offending scrawl. He managed a quick frown in the direction of the blond head behind the bar. “Shylock? The populace weeps.”





	Whatever you say, Gobbo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleurDeLis221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleurDeLis221B/gifts).



“I’ve a macchiato for Shylock!”

“Sherlock.” He took the cup and glared at the offending scrawl. He managed a quick frown in the direction of the blond head behind the bar. “Shylock? The populace weeps.”

Irene hid a snicker behind her hand.

“Oh shut up, Tubal,” Sherlock hissed. “If we didn’t have rehearsal together, I’d-“

“Be sitting at home.” Irene cut him off. “Alone.”

“We’re going to be late.”

Irene flashed a wicked smile as she headed for the door. “I’m far closer to the Duke of Venice anyway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes behind her back. “Whatever you say, Gobbo.”

Irene let out a full body laugh. “Gobbo…”

The door swung shut behind them.

~

Irene sipped her espresso as Sherlock drummed his fingers on the counter. “You are horrifyingly impatient.”

“I’m not impatient. I’m perfectly patient.”

Irene raised a brow, pointedly looking at his fingers.

Sherlock scoffed and raised his hand in surrender. “Honestly, how long does it take to froth some milk?”

“About one minute and twenty-four seconds if you do it right,” the barista called from behind the bar.

“I’m telling you, if you just started drinking espressos like a normal person…”

“I recognize that you prefer your drinks as dark as your soul, but-”

“I’ve a macchiato for-“

“Sherlock,” he interjected.

“Turlough?” the barista read the name on the cup with a glint of humor in his eye.

“Turlough?” Sherlock snatched the cup angrily.

Irene did a poor job of hiding a grin. “Come along, Turlough.”

“Turlough?!” Why was the barista smiling?

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Irene took his elbow and steered him towards the door.

“Drama queen?! Me?!”

“Yes you,” Irene pointed him out the door.

“That is horrifyingly rude to draw comparison between myself and Mycroft.”

“Out!” Irene nudged him out the door.

~

Irene pursed her lips, feigning interest in the lid of her coffee.

“I said Holmes today,” Sherlock muttered.

“Spoil sport,” Irene hummed.

“It was getting absurd.”

“You’re absurd.” Irene plastered an innocent expression on her face.

Sherlock frowned at her. “You wonder why the antagonistic movements work so much better for us.”

“Oh, I have an excellent idea why. You’re just too fun to not rile up.”

Sherlock ducked away as she reached up to ruffle his hair. “Don’t you dare!”

“Macchiato for Ohms.”

“Ohms?!” Sherlock’s face scrunched. “Now this is just ridiculous!”

“Is that an omega?” Irene giggled.

“I…” Sherlock gaped at it. “That’s just…”

“Come on,” Irene turned him towards the door, shooting a wink at the barista who winked back.

“No, this is too much!”

“What are you going to do? Complain? Come on, Sherlock.” She took his arm and started tugging. “At least you have to respect the humor.”

“I have to do nothing of the sort!”

“Why not? You resisting it?”

“IRENE!” he bellowed as the door swung shut in their wake.

~

“You know, I actually complained to Hudders,” Sherlock said conversationally as they pushed into the café.

“You didn’t!” Irene laughed at him. “Sherlock, why would you do that?”

“It’s disrespectful! They can’t get my name right.”

“Sherlock, it’s just coffee.”

“And I never see them getting your name wrong,” he muttered.

“Because Irene is such a complicated name. Leave the poor workers alone.”

Sherlock tisked and ordered their drinks, dropping exact change into the outstretched hand and moving sharply down the counter. “Incidentally, in spite of the auditory shortcomings, the actual quality of drink has improved of late.”

“You are such a snob, Sherlock.”

He rolled his eyes. “If your espresso was poorly made, you would find another café for these weekly splurges in an instant.”

The corner of Irene’s mouth twitched as her drink was presented on the counter. “You would never have been introduced to this place if they were poorly made. I know what I like.”

“Of course you do.”

“Macchiato?”

Sherlock glanced at the cup as it was slid across the counter with a pleasant smile from the barista. His full name, first and last, was perfectly printed in tidy script. “Yes, thank you.” He gave Irene a wry smile. “See.”

She raised a brow and took a prim sip of her drink and headed for the door. “I’ve never had a poor drink here.”

Sherlock held the door open with his free hand. Irene slipped past him as he took a sip and frowned.

“Everything ok, Sherlock?”

He wrinkled his nose. “This is far closer to a latte than a macchiato.”

“This is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

The door cut off the remainder of her scolding.

~

Irene strode up to the counter, tapped her card against the machine and accepted the two drinks with a wink.

“Wait, how are those ready?”

She handed one to Sherlock, his name written on the side. “I’m tired of hurrying to the studio.”

He gave her a skeptical look.

“And I had a word with the barista. And I know what he likes. This is what happens when you’re nice to people.”

“I’m nice,” he pouted.

Irene grinned. “No, you’re not.”

He scoffed and took a sip of his drink. Then sputtered. “What is this?!”

“Macchiato?” Irene clapped him on the back. “Why?”

“It’s a mocha. Good God, how do you make that mistake?” He stormed up to the counter and set the cup down, pressing it slowly towards the barista with the tip of his finger. “What, exactly, do you think this is?”

The barista blinked at him from behind rather pleasing blond lashes. “It’s a mocha.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

A confused smile pulled attractively at the man’s face. “It’s a combination of espresso, steamed milk, and dark chocolate?”

“No,” Sherlock flapped his hand to swat away the idiocy and the stray word that hovered--attractive. “I know what a mocha is.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Dear God, how do you breathe and stand upright at the same time?”

“Oi!” the barista flushed. “There’s no need to be rude. You asked, Sherlock.”

“Why did you make a mocha? I ordered a macchiato.”

“No, you didn’t.” The smile the barista wore was clearly a cute but falsely pleasant expression used for customer service. It likely worked on most people. Sherlock frowned. “Irene ordered you a mocha.”

Sherlock shot Irene a daggered glare. “She did not.”

“She did,” the barista gave a put upon sigh. “It’s fine, it’s all fine. You don’t want a mocha, that’s fine. I’ll make you a…”

“Macchiato.”

“Macchiato, so.” He pulled the cup off the counter and busied himself with the machine. “Incidentally,” he called over the whirr of the grinder. “If you had ordered a mocha, was it at least a palatable one?”

“Yes, yes. It was a decent mocha.” Sherlock propped his cheek in his hand, resting his elbow on the counter. “Just can’t dance with fresh sugar in my system.”

“Ah, alright then.” A moment later, a fresh cup appeared at his side. “Macchiato.”

“Macchiato,” Sherlock nodded, picked up the cup, and headed for the door, sweeping past Irene on his way. “So much for your time saving approach.”

Irene snickered.

“What?”

She pointed to the side of his cup as she slipped out the door.

_Sherlock ‘I don’t drink mochas’ Holmes_

~

“Did you pre-order this time?”

Irene flashed him a grin. “Given how well that went last time, I thought maybe you might sort it out yourself.”

“You are, without a doubt, the most unhelpful dance partner I’ve ever had.” Sherlock headed for the counter.

“That is patently false.”

“Good morning,” the barista greeted with a cheerful smile. “Let me guess, macchiato and espresso?”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Only took you two months to sort that one out.”

“He means, ‘Thank you,’” Irene called from the far end of the counter.

“I do not!” Sherlock snapped.

“Ah friends,” the barista mused. “How lovely.”

“Irene is not my friend,” Sherlock muttered. “She’s a dance partner. Nothing more.”

“Aw, Sherlock,” Irene pouted. “I’m hurt.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am,” she wrapped an arm around his waist and dropped her head against the jut of his shoulder. “You hurt my feelings.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Who’s the drama queen now?”

“You ought to apologize,” the barista slid Irene her cup and a sympathetic smile.

“This is why I don’t do friends.”

Irene grabbed her drink and managed a sneaky pinch to Sherlock’s bum as she glided out of reach.

Sherlock let out a loud squeak of surprise, his face turning crimson at both the embarrassment of the sound and the sharpness of the pinch. “Irene!”

The barista muffled a laugh, catching his lower lip between his teeth and becoming overly interested in milk he was frothing.

“That has appeased my emotional injury. And I regret nothing.” Irene sipped her coffee and shot a wink at the barista. He winked back and Sherlock scowled. They were flirting right in front of him, how irritating. And disappointing.

“Macchiato?” he handed Sherlock his cup and winked again. It shouldn’t have been attractive.

Sherlock snatched the cup and squinted down at the barista. “You should know, she’s gay.” Then he spun on his heel and stormed out the door.

“Sherlock!” Irene snapped. “Goddammit, Holmes, you absolute twat!”

~

“We don’t have time today!”

“Sherlock, I swear, you do not want to see me without my morning espresso.”

“I’ve seen you every which way and it doesn’t make one iota of improvement in your behavior.”

“Fine, I don’t want to deal with you without your coffee. How’s that?”

“Rude. That’s what it is.”

“You’re rude,” Irene countered and turned to the barista. “One-”

He smiled, winked, and handed her two cups. “You know, if you made use of our rewards programme, you’d be getting free coffees this morning.”

“Oh, you are a saint!” She leaned over the counter and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Come on, Irene,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah.” She shoved the second cup at him then glanced back at the barista. “What a grouch.”

“Oh my God, come on!”

“How’s your macchiato?”

Sherlock took a sip as he held the door open for Irene. “It’s fine. Now move it.”

Irene hummed and tilted her head at the cup.

Sherlock let the door close and nearly tripped over his own feet as he actually read the cup.

_So am I, Holmes._

~

“Oh stop dragging your feet get in there, you big baby!”

“I’m not,” Sherlock protested.

“You are.” Irene practically shoved him into the café. “Now go get me my coffee and get yourself a date.”

Sherlock flushed. “He’s not interested.”

“He is. He told me,” Irene countered. “Now go.”

Sherlock made his way up to the counter and straighten to his full height. He could do this. He’d been rude in the past, but Irene was certain it was flirting and…

“Hi, can I help you?”

Sherlock frowned at the petite brunette and glanced back at Irene for help. “Uh…”

“Oh dear,” Irene mused. “New people.”

“Oh. Um.” Sherlock winced. “One macchiato and one espresso.”

“Please,” Irene prompted.

“Please,” Sherlock echoed.

“No problem. Give me a moment.” The woman disappeared behind the bar.

“Aw,” Irene patted his back. “Next time, eh?” Then she waited at the far end of the counter for her cup.

“Next time,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Espresso,” the woman slid the cup onto the counter and returned to prepare the second drink.

Irene took a sip and turned away. Sherlock raised a brow and Irene made a rocking motion with her hand. Ah. More disappointment.

“And macchiato?”

Sherlock took his cup and hesitated. “Wait, the…” He cleared his throat. “The um, the barista that’s normally here on Saturday mornings…”

“Oh, John. Yeah? He opens every Saturday morning. He couldn’t come in today,” the woman babbled cheerily. “Phoned in sick. He’s never sick. But I guess everyone needs a sick day now and then.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “I see. I… hope he’s better soon.”

“I’ll tell him!”

Sherlock gave another nod. “You… do that…” And he headed to the door.

“She’s kind of cute,” Irene mused.

“Shut up, Irene.”

“Shame she’s not as good at making coffee.”

Sherlock sipped his macchiato and grimaced. “Ugh.”

~

“Brace yourself,” Irene grinned, pulling open the door. “We might have another week of sad coffees.”

“John, you shouldn’t be doing that!”

“It’s fine, Molly!”

“It’s not! Put that down! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Sherlock paused just shy of the counter.

“You’re too short to reach it anyway!”

“You aren’t that much taller than me! Besides, at least I can use both of my arms!”

“Cut it out, Molly!”

Irene chuckled as Sherlock cleared his throat, “Uh, hello?”

The brunette from the previous week appeared from behind the bar, a slight flush on her face. “Oh, hi! Sorry. Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Espresso and macchiato?” came a call from behind the bar.

“Yes. Please,” Sherlock called back.

“Oh. Right,” the woman rang them up as the grinder started whirring. “It’ll be just a moment then.” She ducked behind the bar.

“I’ve got it, Molly. Please. Just… put the lids on when I’m done.”

Irene raised a brow and leaned around the end of the counter. Sherlock pulled her back, “Irene, don’t be rude.”

“Rich coming from you,” she murmured and tugged him further down so he could see as well.

“Espresso for you,” a lidless cup landed on the counter and Molly snapped a lid on quickly with a smile.

“I’ll have the macchiato ready in a tick. Just need to…”

“John, I can do the milk.”

“Molly, please.”

“Hey, Molly, is it?” Irene propped her chin in her hand and leaned over the counter. “I love that dress.”

“Oh!” Molly flushed. “Uh, thanks.”

Irene grinned. “Where’d you get it?”

Molly’s blush deepened. “There’s a shop, just, you know, down near Bayswater, and I was there…”

“Well it looks lovely on you.”

“Oh. Thanks. I mean… Thank you.”

“And a macchiato.”

The cup appeared next to Sherlock and he glanced down. Oh dear. A sling would surely slow someone down. “What did you do to your arm?”

The barista, John, winced and it pulled at a bruise on his cheek. “Rugby.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Should you… I mean, are you alright to be working?”

He made a face and played his fingers nervously along the counter. “I need this job.”

“Oh.”

“But hey,” John turned his face up and plastered on a wide smile. “I make better espresso than Molly.”

Sherlock found himself grinning. “Well thank God for that.”

~

Sherlock fidgeted with his scarf and straightened his coat for the third time. Finally, he took a deep breath and pushed into the café. It was late on a Tuesday evening. He’d never been in after dark. Hell, he’d only been in on those early Saturday mornings. There were people there, eating, drinking, reading. Oh, this was a bad idea. He nearly turned right around and left.

“Hi, how can I… Oh,” John’s pleasant smile stretched into a grin. “Well, hello there, stranger.”

“Uh. Yes, hello.” He tugged his gloves off and stuffed them quickly into his pockets.

“Haven’t seen you in the past few weeks. I hope it wasn’t the bad joke I wrote on your cup.”

“The… no. No, of course not.” Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “The show is coming up and rehearsal times with the school changed.”

“I see.” John propped his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “So, what can I do for you this evening, Sherlock?”

“I…” Sherlock blushed. All his plans seemed to dissipate in the face of John’s smile and the black tee shirt John was wearing was just shy of too snug, and the way John raised a brow was distracting. “I… uh. Mocha,” he blurted out finally.

“A mocha?” the corner of John’s mouth tugged into a lop-sided grin.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded.

“You’re sure this time? You’re not confusing it for a macchiato? Or a flat white?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a huff. “Yes, John. I know what a mocha is.”

“It’s just that last time…”

“Last time I was on my way to rehearsal.”

“I see how it is,” John winked and ducked behind the bar. “You know,” he called over the noise. “We’re closing in about five minutes.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to toss what’s left of those biscuits. You want one?”

Sherlock found the small display and furrowed his brow. “What kind are they?”

“Oatmeal raisin.” John reappeared briefly. “Regular or dark chocolate?”

“Dark,” Sherlock answered absently. “And no wonder you have these left. Raisins are an abomination.”

“They’re not.” John chuckled. “Where’s Irene tonight?”

Sherlock shrugged and turned his attention back to John, behind the bar. “I’m quite certain I don’t want to know what she does with her evenings.”

John grinned. “Fair enough. One tall dark and handsome for, well, tall dark and handsome.”

Sherlock felt his face color instantly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

John hummed and nudged the cup over in Sherlock’s direction. “Go on then.”

Now or never. Sherlock pulled the tickets from his coat pocket and set them on the counter, taking the cup in return. “Those um… If you want… You could…”

John slid the papers to the edge and flicked them up. “Are these?”

“Yes, yes, tickets. To the show. You should… if you’re not working,” Sherlock waved his hand in place of finishing the sentence.

The smile was slow to start, but it spread across John’s face until he was beaming. “I’ll be there.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, his curls bouncing. “Good. Excellent. That’s… Good.”

“Sherlock,” John raised a brow. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.” He tugged his gloves back on and scooped up the mocha. “Sorry. Must dash.”

John started chuckling before Sherlock reached the door, and the wonderful sound of his high-pitched giggles followed him out into the fresh snow. And Sherlock barely felt he’d caught his breath when he glanced down at the cup and the flush returned to his face in full force.

_If you don’t like raisins, how about a date?_

~

“Sherlock!” Irene bounded across the backstage and leapt at him. He had no real choice but to catch her. “That was brilliant!”

He carefully set her down, conscious of the pointe shoes and tutu. “We performed admirably.”

Irene laughed and smacked his arm then looped her own around his. “Don’t be a spoil-sport! Now, get yer bum to the change room; we have to go out and meet the masses.”

“Spare me.”

“Drama queen,” Irene stuck out her tongue. “Don’t make me come in there and get you.”

Sherlock gave her a horrified look. “You wouldn’t.”

She grinned. “I would. Now,” she gave him a light pat on the bum. “Go.”

Sherlock scowled and made his way into the dressing room, relishing the brief calm and quiet at being one of only three people using the men’s change room. Irene, however, would make good on her threat if he dawdled too long. So he quickly wiped the stage makeup off his face and changed into his suit. He was going to receive abuse for his lack of tie, but the plumb colored shirt and jet-black suit didn’t need or warrant a tie. Plus, he hated ties.

“Knock, knock!” Irene called. “I hope you’re not decent. Because it will absolutely make my evening!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if that would interest you in any way.”

Irene came around the corner, taking a moment to adjust the off-shoulder sleeve of her dress. “It wouldn’t. But it makes you blush and that amuses me.”

“Right, let’s get this over with. I’m going to slowly walk straight through that lobby and out the door.”

“You have to stay for one glass of champagne and at least twenty-five minutes.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty,” Irene countered.

“Seventeen, and I get to mock the first three people I see.”

“Two. And you have to get me a glass of champagne.”

“Deal.”

“Shall we?”

Sherlock offered his arm and led Irene out of the changing rooms and into the theatre lobby. He glanced at his watch, quickly sourced two glasses of champagne and handed one to Irene. “Time starts now.”

She tipped her glass off of his. “And here comes your first victim.”

Sherlock smirked and listened to the first few moments of Chloe’s effusive praise of Irene’s performance before cutting in with a subtle jab about her partner’s embezzling. “You’ve ten minutes left.”

“And victim number two,” Irene grinned.

“Uh, hey.”

Sherlock’s head whipped at the voice. “John?”

John flushed and wet his lips. “Hey. Thanks for the tickets.”

“Ooh, are those for me?” Irene scooped the small cluster of flowers from John’s hand and smiled into them. “Aren’t you sweet.” She pecked his cheek and winked at Sherlock. “What a gentleman.”

John’s blush deepened. “Not really. I seem to have lost my plus one somewhere. I swear she was here a second ago.”

Oh. Sherlock tried to keep the disappointment from his face. “She?”

“Yeah. Molly… I figured she enjoys ballet and um…” He trailed off.

“Oh, you are perfect,” Irene ran a finger down John’s cheek as he turned crimson. “I’ll leave you to it then. I really must catch up with Molly.” And she headed off into the crowd. Sherlock watched her departure with interest.

“Right…” John crammed his hands into his pockets and toed at the floor. “So, you were really good.”

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Yeah, but then this guy gave me tickets…”

“How fortuitous.”

“Molly kept explaining how complex all the footwork was… I think she liked the costumes.”

“Did she?”

“Wouldn’t shut up about Irene’s legs.”

“Interesting.”

“I know. How anyone could bother looking at Irene when you were in those tights…”

Sherlock grinned. “Were those flowers really for Irene?”

John huffed out a laugh. “I uh… I didn’t know if it was something that you’d want. And I wasn’t going to tell her.”

Sherlock chuckled. “She doesn’t like to be told, ‘no.’”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. And she’s scarier than you are.”

“You didn’t need to bring anything.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” John chewed on his lower lip. “I would offer to get you a drink but…”

Sherlock glanced at the champagne. “I could be convinced that something other than cheap champagne is the way forward.”

“Oh yeah?” The beginning of a smile lit up John’s face. “Because I know a place.”

“Do you now?”

“Small café, not far.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Interested?”

“How’s the coffee?”

“Depends on the barista.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Sherlock set his glass down on the nearest flat surface. “Let me grab my coat.”

A few minutes later, they were wandering down the snow-dusted pavement, heading for a familiar storefront with a red and gold awning. But John moved past it to the large black door and pulled out his keys. “John?” Sherlock glanced up in confusion.

John shrugged one of his shoulders. “I open for Mrs. H, but I shouldn’t just… Open in the middle of the night. I um…” He gestured at the door. “Mrs. H rented me the flat upstairs. Makes it easy to be in for six, and I needed something affordable, and I think she wanted someone else in the building at night.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tilted his head back to take in the tall windows. Not a bad deal. “Alright.”

“I promise I can make you a good coffee in my kitchen.”

Sherlock bit back a grin and followed John inside and up to the flat.

“So, what will you have? I can make you a macchiato if that’s what you’d like.”

“It’s a bit late for espresso, isn’t it?”

John smiled. “It’s never too late for coffee. How about a hot chocolate? I probably have marshmallows somewhere around here.”

“That would be lovely.”

“And I thought you’d be picky,” John winked, pulling milk out of the fridge and setting to work.

“I am picky.” Sherlock leaned back against the counter to watch. “You just have yet to disappoint me with your concoctions.”

“Oh?” He set a saucepan full of milk on the hob.

“Except for the one time you made me a latte instead of macchiato.”

John blushed, his cheeks and ears instantly pink. “Oh that…”

“What?”

“I um… I did that on purpose,” John muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Why?”

John feigned interest in the slowly heating milk. “I was hoping it’d give you a reason to talk to me…”

“You…”

John huffed out a nervous laugh. “Sorry. It was so stupid.”

“You purposely made me the wrong coffee just so I’d talk to you.”

John shrugged. “And put the wrong name on the cups.”

“John,” Sherlock snorted. “You know I have a habit of eviscerating people that are wrong.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re an idiot.”

John sighed and went back to stirring.

“John,” Sherlock reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers along John’s wrist. “You are ridiculous.” John shrugged and Sherlock snagged his hand, tugging gently until John turned. “You could have just asked.”

“Yeah well… You’re a little intimidating.”

“Well…”

“And what would I have asked? Hi, guy I serve coffee to, you’re really hot and interesting, can you pretend not to be bored for five minutes in my presence?”

“You think I’m hot?”

“Oh my God, Sherlock, are you kidding?”

Sherlock tugged harder on his hand, pulling him away from the hob and directly in front of him. “You think I’m hot,” he repeated.

John blushed. “Christ. You, with the legs and the cheekbones. Yes. Don’t be a tit.”

“Oh.” Sherlock thought about that for a moment. “So when you wrote ‘Ohms’ on the cup…”

“It was to get your attention, yes.”

“And that awful joke about raisins?”

John sighed up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I was serious.”

“Oh.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John bit his lower lip and tried not to smile back. “You are a terrible flirt,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yeah, well, Irene said I had to be clever about it.”

“You went to Irene?!”

“Yes! Ok, yes! We’ve established I’m an idiot!”

Sherlock grinned. He couldn’t help it. John was flustered and blushing and the whole thing was hilarious. He chuckled. “John.”

John snickered. “No. Stop. Don’t laugh.”

Sherlock started laughing outright. “You idiot.”

“No!” John started giggling. “No laughing.”

Sherlock dropped John’s hand and reached for his face, cupping his grinning cheeks between his palms. “You perfect, beautiful idiot.”

“M’not an idi-”

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. He kissed the laughter straight out of his mouth as John let out a small grunt of surprise. Then John folded against him with a hum of pleasure. And just like that, they were snogging against the counter. And Sherlock finally got a chance to wrap his fingers around those biceps while John finally got his hands on Sherlock’s bum. Sherlock groaned and pulled back for a breath. “Oh,” he said simply.

John’s eyes lit with amusement and pleasure. “Does this count as a date?”

Sherlock let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “John…”

John grinned and huffed, the expression on his face shifting rapidly from pleasure and humor to confusion and alert then alarm. “Shit!” He released his hold on Sherlock and spun back to the hob. “Shit, shit, shit. The milk!” He pulled the fuming saucepan from the burner and switched on the extractor fan.

Sherlock leaned back out of the way as John winced and poured the congealing mess into the sink. “I take it back.”

John wrinkled his nose as he tried to rinse the scalded milk from the bottom of the pan. “Hm?”

“I am definitely not drinking that.”

John burst out laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone asks... I know this will come up:
> 
> Turlough is an Irish (traditionally male) name that is a reference to the seasonal lakes that disappear during drier seasons due to the exposed limestone bedrock. None of those facts are particularly important. What you do need to know is that it's pronounced Ter-Lock.


End file.
